Canto XII from ts of Maccrong>

    Arise to birther.

    Give me your  of ths

    sown by your sorrows.

    You  return from tone fastnesses.

    You  emerge from subterranean time.

    Your rasping voice  come back,

    nor your pierced eyes rise from ts.

    Look at me from th,

    tiller of fields, icent shepherd,

    groom of totemic guanacos,

    mason reacherous scaffolding,

    iceman of Andean tears,

    jeh crushed fingers,

    farmer anxious among his seedlings,

    potter ed among his clays--

    bring to this new life

    your ancient buried sorrows.

    Show me your blood and your furrow;

    say to me: here I was scourged

    because a gem h

    failed to give up in time its titone.

    Point out to me tumbled,

    to crucify your body.

    Strike ts

    to kindle ancient lamps, lighe whips

    glued to your  turies

    and ligh your blood.

    I come to speak for your dead mouths.

    t th

    let dead lips congregate,

    out of t to me

    as if I rode at anch you.

    And tell me everytell chain by chain,

    and link by link, and step by step;

    s hidden away,

    t to my breast, into my hands,

    like a torrent of sunbursts,

    an Amazon of buried jaguars,

    and leave me cry: hours, days and years,

    blind ages, stellar centuries.

    And give me silence, give me er, hope.

    Give me truggle, the volcanoes.

    Le